


It's a Nice Morning for a Fly, After All

by potter_queen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-23 03:36:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21313534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potter_queen/pseuds/potter_queen
Summary: He could, Draco realised. He’d let Potter stay all night. In fact, some part of him wanted him to stay, despite his stupid hair and stupid glasses, he had saved the world. Draco had to give him that. And he wasn’t really as self-centred as Draco had always liked to believe. In fact he was almost… almost quite sweet.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 173





	It's a Nice Morning for a Fly, After All

“Merlin’s fucking saggy tits. I haven’t a clue about how Quidditch works, but even I know this is fucking embarassing.” 

“Oh God.” Draco moaned and sank down in his seat, watching the match unfolding before him through his fingers. “I can’t watch, Pans. I can’t. This is humiliating.”

Pansy squinted through her binoculars as she tried to follow the players zooming around the pitch.

“One fifty to fifty? Is that very bad, Draco?”

“Yes!” Draco wailed. He reached over to pull Pansy’s binoculars out of her manicured hand. “You’re holding it upside down, genius.” He peeked through only to watch a Slytherin chaser whose name he didn’t care to learn fumble and drop the Quaffle. He thrust the binoculars back at Pansy, feeling sick.

“I can’t watch!” 

“Oh, stop dramatising, Draco. I still don’t understand why you didn’t try out. At least we’d have some eye candy then, this lot is utterly depressing to watch, load of old blankets… Golly, the Hufflepuffs are nearly putting on a better show…”

Pansy fiddled with her binoculars till she located Zacharias Smith on the pitch, and proceeded to cheerfully follow his every move for the rest of the match.

Ah well, Draco thought resignedly. At least someone was getting some enjoyment out of this absolute farce of a match. He huffed and puffed for a while longer until Pansy was totally ignoring him and then stood up to stand beside her. 

He sighed some more before pulling his own binoculars out of his robe and training them on Smith. He was an arrogant little toerag, but at least he looked good in his gear. Watch him was certainly less painful than watching Slytherin get obliterated by Hufflepuffs.

~

After everything that had happened after the war, Draco hadn’t expected watching Quidditch to be the hardest thing to do.

He couldn’t bear to think about flying, and he couldn’t bear not to. Every night, flying featured in his dreams. There was always an elusive snitch flying just before him, just out of reach, urging him on, drawing him closer and closer, but he could never quite catch it.

~

“You miss it, don’t you?”

Potter’s stupid voice broke Draco out of his reverie. He had taken to coming down to the pitch to watch the Quidditch practises along with the giggling first years and supportive girlfriends and boyfriends of team mates. He wasn’t sure why he did it, it was more painful than anything else.

He told himself ostensibly that it was to get a break from Pansy. As the only returning Slytherin eighth years, he and Pansy spent a lot of time together. It also didn’t help that they had chosen all the same NEWTS to take. He loved her dearly, and he was terribly glad she had returned, but there was only so much of her one man could take. He reached his daily quota around eleven o’clock, and the lunchtime practises were a great excuse to be alone for a while.

And to torture himself.

Ignoring the great bumbling Hero never seemed to deter him. No matter how steadfastly Draco blanked him, Potter was never deterred. He seemed hell bent on staring at Draco across the Great Hall, staring at Draco in their shared classes and staring at Draco in the library, where he always seemed to show up right after Draco arrived. Now, apparently, he had taken to following Draco around the grounds too. Wonderful.

Draco sighed deeply once he accepted that Potter was not going anywhere. He shook his head to himself to gather his strength before turning to Potter.

“Are you following me Potter? Again, I might add?”

“I don’t know.” Potter chuckled as he sat down next to Draco. “Do I have reason to? Again?”

“Piss off, Potter, you creep.”

Potter ignored him. “You miss it, don’t you?” He persisted in his infuriating manner.

“Fuck off, Potter. You don’t know what I miss.”

“Yes I do, Malfoy. I see you watching.”

“You see me watching because you’re stalking me, you creep.”

“You want to play.”

“No, I just want literally any other seeker to get up there and beat your skinny, speccy arse. Boland is a fucking embarassment.”

“Agreed. You’re much better. How come you didn’t try out?”

“What are you playing at, Potter?” Merlin, Potter really was stalking him. Draco had just been prodding at what he hoped was a sore spot, but perhaps there was some weight to his jibes. To his horror, Potter even coloured a little.

“I watched all the try-outs.” He sounded defensive.

“So you can watch the try-outs but I can’t watch the training? A double standard for the Hero, I see. Although I suppose I should get used to that-”

“Screw you, Malfoy, you haven’t grown up at all!”

“As though you’re any better!” Draco leapt to his feet, and Potter followed suit, his fists balled and his eyes alive behind the streaky lenses of his glasses.

“Everyone acts as though you’re God’s gift, but I see right through you, Potter! You’re just a clueless little boy like the rest of us. Get fucked!”

Storming away from the Quidditch pitch towards the school was not the most dignified moment of Draco’s life. But shouting at Potter felt invigorating in a perverse way. An outlet of sorts for all his close to the surface, bubbling emotions. It almost felt like old times, jibing Potter for laughs, as though it didn’t mean anything more. Perhaps now, after all the chips had fallen, it didn’t.

~

The thing about Potter was that he was undoubtedly a good Seeker. Draco had to feel reluctantly admiring while he watched Potter twist and dive and fly rings around the Ravenclaw Seeker, a sixth year girl who was quite good in a rough around the edges sort of way. She was no match for Potter, though.

Every time a goal was scored, Draco startled, even though he was watching intently. Potter was just more entertaining to watch. He was at home on a broom. He looked almost graceful flying, much more comfortable in the air than on the ground. It made Draco’s chest ache with want to fly again. Potter looked how Draco felt when he flew. Unrestrained. Unburdened. Free. 

In his five years on the Slytherin team, Draco had only ever lost the Snitch to Potter. It had never been a challenge with the other House Seekers. He had never even had to pay attention to them; his attention lay solely on the Snitch.

As he watched, Draco spotted the Snitch. He gasped slightly. No one else seemed to have spotted it; too focused on a scuffle happening at the other end of the pitch. It was flitting back and forth above the Ravenclaw goalposts. He quickly scanned the pitch for the other Seekers. 

Boland was circling above, heading right for the goalposts, but with no intention. She hadn’t spotted it! Potter was at the other end of the pitch, but looking at his body language, Draco knew straight away that he had seen it. He was sat up with his back stiff as a board, eyes alert behind his stupid goggles, mind clearly working hard.

He would never make it. Draco’s heart fell strangely. There was no way. Boland would spot it soon, she was bound to! And she was so close, she’d be at it in seconds.

Heart pounding in his chest, Draco watched Potter. If it was him, Draco would have flown up level with the post, then began a quick, but not noticeably fast circle of the pitch till he was within sprinting distance, then just go hell for leather and hope against hope that Boland would be too slow off the mark. She was getting closer, though. Potter would have to act quickly.

Potter sank down to goal post lever. Draco grinned.

Now if the announcer didn’t comment on what Potter was doing, he might just have a chance, and luckily the idiot was gleefully describing the scuffle below in great detail.

Potter began his circle. He was still halfway across the pitch, and Boland was feet away from the goals-

Suddenly the snitch jerked downwards. Draco watched in delighted horror as Boland spotted it, and began to twist the nose of her broom to follow, her eyes lighting up.

And then there was a gasp from the crowd, the scuffle was forgotten, Potter was putting on the speed!

He had further to go, but he was faster. And completely reckless in his quest to catch the little ball. He leaned into his broom as though it were a part of him, speeding straight at the ground where the snitch was hovering. 

The crowd was going ballistic, and Draco couldn’t blame him, watching Potter was a sight to behold. 

Boland joined him in his dive, but her heart wasn’t in it. She kept glancing at Potter, who’s eyes were fixed intently on the Snitch. Closer and closer to the ground they sped, the snitch was brushing the grass with its wings.

Feet from the grass, Boland pulled out of the dive. Scared of crashing, or resigned to the knowledge that she could not win a game of chicken with Harry Potter. Either way, no one could blame her. Draco’s fingers clenched the barrier in front of him and he held his breath, itching to reach out and grab the snitch himself.

And then Potter’s fingers closed around the little blur of gold and he pulled straight up from his dive with centimetres to spare. Draco released the breath he was holding and violently suppressed the cheers threatening to burst out of him as the rest of the crowd went wild.

And then time seemed to move in slow motion as Potter soared triumphantly into the air. His eyes scanned the crowd and then landed straight on Draco, like he knew where he had been sitting the whole time. Draco’s breath caught again, and his body felt like something rubber; he was unable to move properly or tear his gaze away at all.

Potter held Draco’s eyes captive as he floated in the, his fist still raised in triumph, until his team reached him and swarmed around him to touch their hero.

~

It was a nice day. The sun was shining for Salazar’s sake. It was inhumane to expect Draco to study indoors. That was the only reason he was studying out here near the pitch. Not at all because stupid Potter and his stupid team were practising. Not at all.

Although Draco wasn’t really getting as much work done as he would like. He was too busy scoffing at the tactics the new Gryffindor Captain was employing.

The training eventually finished up and Draco reluctantly stayed put to seem as though he wasn’t simply out here to watch. He’d have to wait till the team had all disappeared.

It wasn’t long before someone loped up and stood in his light. Draco looked up, ready to tell whoever it was to piss off, only to come eye to eye with Potter. “Potter? Your big head is blocking my light. Care to piss off?”

“Spying on the team, are we Malfoy?”

“Sod off, scarhead. You know I’m not on the team anymore. It’s perfectly legal for me to be here. Besides, I’m studying. I didn’t even notice who was practising.”

“Of course not.” Potter snorted. Dear Merlin. How uncouth. Draco huffed and returned, pointlessly, to the page he had been staring at for the last twenty minutes.

Then Potter did something incomprehensible. He, with all his kit and his smellyness and big stupid boots and his broom, sat down next to Draco, knocking over a stack of books and nearly upsetting Draco’s inkwell. Draco caught it just in time.

“What the fuck, Potter? Did you imagine I invited you to sit down, or something? Are you going loony? Get up and fuck off!” Draco said furiously as he righted his books and inspected his hand for ink stains.

Obtuse as ever, Potter ignored him. “So, what did you think of our training?”

A biting denial of his watching was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t quite manage it. “About as useful as a Quidditch Little League training.”

Potter’s shoulders sagged. “It was, wasn’t it? And they have those?”

“Of course.” Draco looked at him as though he had grown an extra head. “Why wouldn’t they? Didn’t you ever play in them?”

“No, Malfoy. I spent my childhood locked in a cupboard.”

Draco blushed. He had forgotten about that. Although he had never heard Potter admit it himself, part of him had always suspected everything he had ever heard about Potter’s past was bullshit. “Right.”

“What were they like?”

“The Little Leagues?”

“Yeah.” Potter was watching the birds flying overhead. Draco considered for a moment.

“They were great fun. They go from four to Hogwarts age. I started a bit early though, I was dying to go. It’s just like the Hogwarts teams but for kids. I guess it’s just a Pureblood thing. The numbers were never that high. The teams had to be made up of all ages, like. My Father coached my team though.”

“He did?” Potter sounded surprised.

“Yeah.” Draco surprised himself by grinning. “He was such a hardass. All the kids hated him but we always won. They liked him then. Of course.” He added a little bitterly. It was always the way. His father was loved when he was at the top, and goaded and backstabbed when he wasn’t.

“Can’t imagine Lucius Malfoy coaching kids Quidditch.” Draco bristled.

“And why the fuck not, Potter? Why exactly did you sit down here while I’m trying to study? To insult my father? I’m not going to move so you can just fuck right off before I curse your fucking balls off.”

It was Potter’s turn to look abashed. “Look, sorry Malfoy. I didn’t mean- I just meant- Look. I’m just thinking of how my dad never got to coach Quidditch Little League, alright? I’m jealous that you spent your childhood playing Quidditch with your dad while I spent mine locked in a cupboard. Literally locked in a cupboard by the way.” He looked angry now. Draco was a little spooked. He didn’t know what to do with this information.

Draco cleared his throat. “Well, uh, yes. That is a pity.” 

Potter snorted again, and then there was silence. Draco stared at the birds.

“I might have played you before Hogwarts.” Potter’s voice broke the silence.

“Probably.”

“So, what, will we never play again?”

“What, us? What are you on about, Potter?”

“I don’t know. You’re not playing anymore. The year will be over before long. We’ll probably never speak again. It’s strange, I feel like I should remember that last match I played against you. Can’t remember who won.”

“Why is it important? It’s over now.”

“It’s important because… because you’re the reason I got on the team. If I hadn’t chased after you, McGonnagal would never have seen me fly…”

“So?”

“So? I don’t know, Malfoy. I do have some positive memories of you from school, you know. The competition, the rivalry, whatever. Before it all got so serious. It was fun. Like, we were evenly matched, you know? You know you’re the best flyer in the school, after me of course. Why don’t you play anymore?”

“That’s none of your fucking business, Potter.” As if Draco would ever admit how it had killed him to not sign up for the team this year. How he couldn’t bear to watch the try outs. He couldn’t have signed up. The humiliation of being turned down by a jeering kid a year younger than him would have been unbearable.

“Why not? Why not, Malfoy? Try me.”

“No.”

“Let me guess, you were scared you wouldn’t make the team so you didn’t bother trying out? I was there, Malfoy, you didn’t even show.”

Draco’s face reddened and he opened his mouth to protest, but Potter ploughed on.

“You would have out flown every kid there, but you were too much of a coward to show!”

Draco jumped to his feet. His inkwell went flying across the lawn, splattering the grass navy blue. 

“Fuck you, Potter! I’m not a coward, I’m just not a fucking idiot! I wouldn’t have been let on that team even if I was the only person to show! You have no idea-”

“No idea! No idea!” Potter was on his feet now too, all up in Draco’s face, despite being a foot shorter. “No idea what it’s like to be ostracised? To be pushed out for no fucking reason? Are you joking? I’ve spent more time in this school with everyone thinking I’m a fucking loon, or a dangerous physcopath, or whatever the fuck, mostly shit you spread, Malfoy! How dare you tell me I have no idea what that’s like!”

Potter was breathing hard, and red in the face. 

“What are you so scared of, Malfoy?” He began to stomp away, but turned back to shout some more.

“Never fly again, then, Malfoy! See if I fucking care!”

Draco shoved his books furiously into his bag, irritated that they were slowing him down from stomping off. He’d show them. He’d show that stupid team what they were missing. And Harry fucking Potter too.

~

Draco had to wait several days to show them. He penned a furious letter home, demanding his broom to be sent to Hogwarts immediately. His eagle owl, Atticus, delivered the broom at breakfast three days later. Draco only ever came to breakfast to scowl over the paper and drink copious amounts of coffee before class. And to receive his mail. On that particular morning he finished the coffee and the paper early and had to sit in a funk until the post arrived. The telltale shape of a broom being delivered caused some stares. Students twisted to spot the recipient, and Draco ignored them. He just grabbed the parcel when it reached him, fed Atticus a treat and told him he would meet him in the Owlery later, then scraped the bench back loudly as he stood up. The Hall had hushed and Draco’s footsteps were loud as he stalked towards the Entrance Hall. Something twisted inside him, some old forgotten part of himself reawakened as he walked.

He had always liked causing a scene.

He nearly made it to the doors without checking if Potter was watching. But at the last moment, his body betrayed him and his eyes flicked the Potter’s usual seat.

And there he was, wearing a shit eating grin and looking like the cat who got the cream.

~

The Slytherin team trained Saturday mornings at eight on the pitch. Draco woke at five.

It was till dark when he reached the pitch, exactly as Draco wanted it. He wanted to do this when no one could see. He had to know he was still good.

When he took to the air, any doubts he had had slipped away. It was exhilarating flying in the dark. He had no clue where he was flying, and had to rely purely on his instincts not to his the ground, or fly into a tree. 

When the sun began to rise, Draco hovered high in the air. Sleeping in the dungeons, it was not often he got to watch the sunrise, but it was beautiful.

At seven thirty, students began to emerge from the castle, and Draco knew it was showtime. He pulled his gaze away from the sun and took from his pocket a beautiful golden snitch. He took a deep breath, and released it.

Draco had thought he would be a little rusty from months off the broom, but the thrill of the Snitch, and most importantly, the thrill of an audience, stirred him to fly as he had never flown before.

He chased the Snitch, yes, but he twirled and dived and twisted in the air, coming teasingly close to the Snitch just to fall back again, sweeping the grass with his fingertips and weaving through the goalposts. He barrelled and rolled and sped. He danced with the Snitch. He danced for half an hour, until exactly eight o’clock. 

For his big finale, he soared high into the sky, miles above the pitch, then dove. He dove to prove he could dive like Potter. Better than Potter. As he pulled out of the dive, the Snitch zipped in front of his hand -perfectly timed- and he plucked it from the sky as though he had been made simply to pluck snitches from the sky.

He landed lightly, jumping off his broom and landing like a cat. The gaping faces of the Slytherin team was awaiting him, as well as the faces of friends and rivalling Captains who came to watch them play.

He strode, grinning, to the Slytherin captain and tossed him the snitch. As the kid fumbled to catch it, Draco schooled his features and voice into his best Malfoy Heir mode, aristocratic and chilling.

“Let me know when you admit to yourself that you need me on this team, Palmer. You know where to find me.”

Leaving gaping teenagers in his wake, Draco strode from the pitch, broom in hand. For the first time in a long time Draco felt like himself again. Knowing that there must be at least a twinge of admiration in those kids did something great for Draco’s self esteem. Perhaps they had even felt (did he dare to hope?) a twinge of respect.

He was off the pitch and on his way to the castle when he noticed Harry Potter on the lawn overlooking the pitch.

~

Watching Palmer swallow his pride to ask Draco to play in the upcoming match against Hufflepuff was the most gratifying experience of Draco’s life.

The sixth year approached Draco in the common room two nights before that match. Draco was lying in his usual position; head on Pansy’s lap and feet dangling over the side of the couch. Pansy was reading aloud from some gossip rag, pretending to scoff of the ‘utter tripe’ which she followed religiously.

Draco was in a good mood. Atticus had delivered a parcel of French chocolates that evening at dinner, and he and Pansy had skipped the jelly and ice cream pudding to eat every last one, loudly and appreciatively, in front of all his classmates. He had had a great time, loudly singing praise for the little bites of heaven while the other Slytherins looked on, eating their jelly forlornly. On top of that, McGonagall had reluctantly awarded him ten points for successfully transfiguring a matchstick into a working pocket watch. Not even Granger had managed it.

A throat was nervously cleared somewhere near Draco, then came Palmer’s reluctant voice.

“M-malfoy. Can I have a word?”

Draco smiled slowly. He didn’t move, or open his eyes. “Any word, Palmer?”

“What?”

“Noun, verb or adjective? I’m sure you’ll be impressed with my vocabulary.”

“Draco!” Pansy admonished playfully, swatting his shoulders. “Play nice!”

Draco smirked and swung his legs to the ground. He stood to look at Palmer, satisfied by the height difference between them. “What do you want, Palmer?”

The kid looked nervously around the Common Room, evidently displeased by the growing number of eyes monitoring the interaction. He mumbled something in Draco’s general direction.

“What was that, Palmer? I didn’t quite catch it from up here?” Draco was delighted.

“I said,” Palmer repeated through gritted teeth. “Would you mind playing with us on Saturday? It’s our last chance to stay in the running. We need a decent Seeker.”

Several scathing remarks sprang to mind immediately, but Draco swallowed them down. After all, even though Palmer didn’t realise it, he was the one with the power here. And Draco shouldn’t be too nasty, afterall, he would be working with the kid from now on. So Draco just tilted his chin and nodded.

“I’d be happy to.” Palmer’s eyes widened with surprise. He must have been expected a fight. Draco didn’t blame him. “Thank you.” Palmer’s eyes nearly fell out of his sockets. Malfoys did not say thank you.

“Well, er, right. That’s good then. I’ll see you at training.”

Ignoring the shameless stares of the other students, Draco returned to the couch. Pansy was watching him. With her feet tucked up under her and her dark eyes narrowed like that, she reminded Draco of a devious little cat. Regardless, he felt relieved when she patted her knees primly, inviting Draco to sit as though he wasn’t acting strangely at all.

~

Despite his bravado, Draco felt terribly nervous in the days before the match. He had only managed to attend one training session before the Saturday game, and it had started off pretty horrifically. Most of the team members wanted nothing to do with him, which was fine; Draco had expected that, but it did get in the way of tactic planning. 

Connarty, one of the Slytherin beaters, was particularly irritated by Draco’s presence. His father had been a Dark Lord sympathiser, never reaching the inner circles but nevertheless fired from his respectable Ministry job and ostracised for his views. He acted as though Draco had been the one to fire his father and lose him his yearly holiday to Mexico and the latest Nimbus.

The rest of the team were mostly just anxious to be perceived as overly friendly with Draco, like the rest of the Wizarding population. They had given him a wide berth while running drills and avoided his eyes until Palmer had been forced to call the team to the ground to give them a ‘pep talk,’ which had mostly consisted of him reminding the team that they could not lose to Gryffindor, and that if they did they would be out of the running for the cup. Like it or not, he had insisted, they needed Malfoy to win.

Being reminded of the common enemy (the Gryffindor Quidditch team) had served well to unite the team in their efforts. Even Connarty reluctantly admitted that although he thought Malfoy was a toerag, it would be terribly satisfying to watch Potter be trounced by Slytherins.

The tactics were simple- Draco had to keep the Gryffindor Seeker away from the Snitch long enough for the team to score at least three goals more than Gryffindor, (Slytherin needed a 180 point advantage to be in with a shot for the final), then he was to catch the Snitch.

Simple. Straight forward. If you didn’t consider the fact that the Gryffindor Seeker was Harry bloody Potter.

That Saturday dawned clear and blustery and bright. Great conditions for a match. Draco felt a wonderful and familiar cocktail of anticipation, dread and excitement. At breakfast, Pansy was beside herself; fussing over Draco’s robes and his hair and insisting he ate more. Her excitement and delight only fueled Draco’s emotions; it was terribly endearing seeing her drop her ice-queen face.

Palmer seemed to have all but forgotten about his reluctance to accept Draco onto the team. As they marched down to the pitch he gripped Draco across the shoulders, frantically repeating tactics and reminding Draco about the importance of this game. He spoke about Quidditch with a single-mindedness and fanaticism that Draco associated with Marcus Flint.

There was not an empty seat in the stadium. News of Draco returning to his position as Slytherin Seeker had been the talk of Hogwarts for the past week. Everyone seemed to be delighted by the news; Potterheads were dying to watch their hero beat him, and the Slytherins were clutching at their last chance at a place in the final. Hufflepuff too, had a stake in the game. If Gryffindor won today, they would be coming in dead last. Although Draco was sure none of them would be outwardly supporting him in spite of this.

No pressure, then.

As Draco mounted his broom, eyes on Hooch as she explained the rules they all knew by heart, he caught a glimpse of Potter behind the Gryffindor captain, and his nerves just seemed to melt away. It seemed unbelievable that he was here, worrying about a Quidditch game. He reflected back over the last year or so, when there had been no space for thoughts of Quidditch in his head. What he would do to go back and tell himself, that skinny and terrified boy that he and his parents would make it out of that hellish world alive, and not only live to tell the tale, but live to play another Quidditch game.

When Draco took to the sky he was grinning. He had a good feeling about this game. He could win he was sure of it. Life had thrown enough losses at him recently, so it seemed to him that the karmic odds were in his favour today.

And if he didn’t win, well, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. So if this was to be his last Hogwarts Quidditch match, he was sure as hell going to have a good time playing it.

Although, really, it was just a game against Potter. When had Quidditch at Hogwarts not been, really? Potter had said that no one challenged him like Draco… Draco hoped he could keep that up today.

Distraction was the name of the game for now. He began trailing Potter diligently. He couldn’t think about the Snitch until Slytherin was thirty points up, and he was hoping that wouldn’t take too long. 

The Gryffindors had obviously clocked the Slytherin tactics, and they were desperate to find the snitch as quickly as possible. Potter was scanning the pitch ferociously, but every time Draco flew too close to him he would lose his concentration and swear angrily.

A bubble of smugness was blooming inside Draco. Distraction was the name of the game for now, and if Draco was good at anything, it was distracting Harry Potter. It was a skill he hadn’t tested in a while, admittedly, but he was as confident in his abilities to piss off Harry Potter.

Below him, Slytherin scored a goal. Draco grinned and trailed Potter more closely. Cheerfully, he bumped the back of Potter’s broom. Potter twisted angrily and fell off course a little.

“What are you playing at, Malfoy?”

“Just having a bit of fun. I have some time to kill.” Draco sped up so that he was level with Potter, obscuring his view of the pitch. To his surprise, Potter sighed and slowed.

“You’re not going to let up, are you?”

“Not even for a moment.” Draco sing-songed. Potter’s eyes were still scanning.

There was a cheer below them. Slytherin had scored again. Potter’s frown deepened. Draco flew a quick circle around him, over his head and underneath, pulling Potter’s gaze back towards him.

“Well, you got your wish, Potty. I suppose I shouldn’t have enabled you.”

“Oh, please, Malfoy. This wasn’t for me.”

“No, I suppose it wasn’t. How do I look, though?” Draco sped up to hover in front of Potter, forcing him to brake abruptly. His big, green eyes blinked behind his stupid goggles.

“How do you look?”

“Yes, back on my broom.” Draco did a little barrel-roll. Below them, Gryffindor scored a goal. Potter didn’t seem to notice. “It’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

“I-” Potter looked very confused. Draco preened theatrically.

“I’ll take that as a dashing, Malfoy.” Potter shook his head and attempted to fly beneath Draco. Draco swooped downwards and followed him closely. One more goal, he wished silently, just one more goal…

Draco began to scan the skies for the Snitch. Potter was back on the war path, ignoring Draco again as he whizzed in circles high above the pitch. 

And then it happened. The Quaffle flew through the Gryffindor goal. Palmer bellowed something at Draco that Draco couldn’t hear, and the game was on. The game he had really come to play. Him against Potter.

Ignoring Potter now, Draco began his own search in earnest, scanning every inch of sky for that telltale glint of gold. The Slytherin team were on the defensive now, refusing to let a single Quaffle near the goals. Draco barely noticed them.

They spotted it when he and Potter happened to be crossing paths. A flash of gold above them. Potter’s eyes caught his for a split second, and then they were both tilting their brooms upwards, zooming after the Snitch.

The commentator was ignoring the rest of the match now, simply screeching he and Potter’s ever move into the sonorous charm McGonagall was pointing at him. This is it, Draco thought as he and Potter raced after the Snitch, neck in neck. This is the moment.

Potter was playing dirty today, Draco noted with satisfaction. He was all elbows in Draco’s side and smashing his broom into Draco. The Snitch was mere feet ahead of them when it took a sudden, sharp right. Potter was closer, and he began to reach out to catch it-

But he couldn’t reach. Draco let out a relieved bellow and put on the speed, weaving through the air after the Snitch. Potter was swearing in frustration and barrelling after the Snitch, his eyes wide and alive.

The world seemed to move in slow motion as the Snitch took a sudden dive. When Potter looked his way, there was a glint in his eye, a challenge that set Draco’s nerves on fire. 

Scared, Malfoy?

You wish.

The whizz of the wind in his ears drowned out the crowds, and the commentator. All there was in the world was the growing sea of green before his eyes, the flash of golden snitch before him, and Potter’s hard, hot body jostling him on his left.

Down and down and down they soared, arms stretched out, so close yet just quite there yet. He was going to have to pull up soon, they were going too fast, and too vertical… the blood was roaring in Draco’s skull now.

They were feet from the ground. Potter was slowing, infinitesimally, but Draco noticed. They were a hair’s breadth away when suddenly Potter gave a frustrated roar and pulled out of the dive, and just in time too, because Draco was hurtling into the ground, but he could barely feel a thing, because his fingers had just closed around the cold metal of the Snitch.

He got to enjoy the feeling for a split second. He couldn’t get to his feet, but he could raise his arm and grin, and all around green figures were descending, yelling triumphantly, around him, and then everything went black.

~

When Draco opened his eyes he was in the hospital wing. It was unmistakable. He had spent many a day here over the years in Hogwarts… mostly Quidditch injuries but also his phantom arm injury in third year, a terrible but mercifully short lived bout of pixie hives in fourth year, and of course, when Potter sliced him open in sixth year…

With a groan, he tilted his head to the side, only to see Pansy lounging in the chair beside his bed. She was tanning her bare legs in a slant of sun coming in through the window, reading what looked like the Quibbler, and stuffing her face with sweets.

“You big hoor. Those are mine.”

She at least had the good grace to jump and look slightly guilty- for all of five seconds.

“You big hoor yourself. You have loads. The Slytherins are chuffed.”

“They are?”

“Yes. Stop looking so pleased with yourself. You’d swear it was a final or something. Now you’re all bunged up for nothing. Merlin’s tits, Draco, you’re so lucky your face is all right?”

“That’s the important bit.”

“Of course it is! Beating Potter isn’t worth breaking up your beautiful face.” She looked thoughtful for a moment then brightened wickedly. “You should have seen him, Draco! He was so mad. Threw his broom on the grass in a big huff and disappeared off into the castle.”

“Did he, indeed?” Draco was delighted. That was definitely worth what felt like a broken arm and possibly a couple of ribs, judging by the agony he was suffering to breath. Before Pansy could respond, however, Madame Pomfrey had bustled into the room and squawked loudly.

“Miss Parkinson! What are you doing here! I told you to get to class an hour ago!”

“Sorry, Madame Pomfrey!” Pansy’s impish little face adopted her best ‘I’m so innocent!’ face. She hopped up from where she was lounging, tugging her skirt back down to her knees. “I just didn’t want Draco waking up all lonely and scared…”

Pomfrey tutted and made shooing gestures, but she was smiling a little. Pansy winked at Draco and bent to kiss him before she took off out the door to find another way to get out of class, but not before gathering handfuls of Draco’s sweets before she left.

“Now, Mr Malfoy,” Pomfrey went on briskly. “Round two of the Skelegro, here you are. Drink up.”

“Right.” Draco took the glass diligently. Merlin, how he hated Skelegro. “Pardon me, but what exactly have I broken? I can’t remember…”

“Three ribs and that right wrist of yours, although the first lot of potion seems to have done wonders already. You’ll have some impressive bruising too.”

Draco winced as he gulped back the potion under Pomfrey’s watchful gaze. She inspected his empty glass and nodded approvingly.

“Good boy,” she praised, and Draco felt thirteen all over again. 

“Now. Rest. I’ll keep you for the night and then see how you are in the morning.” Draco nodded and she turned to head back towards her office, but stopped short after a few steps and turned around.

“Oh, and Mr Malfoy?”

“Yes?”

“Your teammates dropped this by.” Out of her pocket, she drew the golden snitch, it’s wing a little bent and a smear of mud on it’s side, but otherwise perfect. “They were in very good spirits.”

“Thanks.” Draco took the little ball, feeling oddly choked up. If Pomfrey noticed anything, however, she didn’t mention it.

Draco drifted back to sleep with the little ball tucked in his pyjama shirt pocket, like a little reminder that he had won, just on his own merit. All on his own merit…

~

It was dark the next time Draco woke. He took a few, experimental, deep breaths and was delighted to find he could breathe painlessly again. He flexed his right hand cautiously and felt another wave of relief- it was good as new. He had been rather concerned about his wrist, actually. His left hand was rather temperamental these days, and Draco didn’t fancy a set of dodgy hands.

He was happily yawning and stretching in the dark when, suddenly, the Quibbler magazine which Pansy had abandoned earlier fell abruptly to the ground.

He froze and stared. A cold trickle of fear ran down his spine. There was a time in the very recent past when something like that meant Draco was about to be attacked. His wand was on the bed stand. Did he dare reach out and grab it? Was it better to stay still?

“Who’s there?” Draco tried and failed to sound intimidating. If this was some sort of prank he would kill himself he sounded terrified.

There was a long pause. Then a voice from right by the bed, “me.”

Draco frowned. It didn’t sound like a scary voice. Or like a first year pulling a prank. In fact, it sounded awfully like…

“Potter?”

“Yes. Don’t scream, I’m about to appear.”

“About to what-” Draco didn’t get another second to try and figure out what was happening, because Harry bloody Potter suddenly appeared by the head of his bed with a swish of fabric.

Draco didn’t scream, but it was a bloody close call. In fact, he just clutched his chest and gawked at Potter.

“Is this a nightmare?”

“No, you’re awake.”

“Well then, what the hell is happening?”

Now that Draco’s fear was abating, he was rapidly becoming aware that he was very exposed in his night things. He was wearing a white silk pyjama set that was rather, well, slinky. Pansy had brought it, obviously thinking she was hilarious. 

Potter looked unnervingly white in the dark; his usually tanned skin pale in the gloom. He picked up the magazine he had dropped and sat down in Pansy’s chair, looking suspiciously at home there, like he had already been sitting there a while.

“I just came to see how bad your injuries were. You look fine.”

“You came to see how my injuries were, in the middle of the night? While I was sleeping?”

“Well, you make it seem creepy when you put it like that.”

They were quiet for a while.

“They’re not that bad. My injuries.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good. Was it worth the win?”

Draco preened. “Yes, it was. Not too shabby for a first match back, I have to say.”

“No,” Potter was smiling at Draco strangely. “Not too shabby at all.”

“What are you smiling about?”

“I don’t know. It was good to see you out there again. I was convinced I was going to win, in all honesty. It’s weirdly refreshing not to.”

“Well, get used to it, Potter. I think I might have got my mojo back.”

“Your mojo?” He was teasing, but it lacked any bite. Draco felt fond. It was like they were teasing for old times sake.

“Yes, my mojo. It’s a muggle word.”

“I know.” Potter was laughing. His teeth were very white, Draco noted distantly. And quite straight, too. It was rather a wonder he had nice teeth, after everything he had been through.

“Are you okay, Malfoy?”

“Yes. Yes. Just tired.”

“I should let you sleep.”

“Yes.” Neither of them moved.

“Or you could just stay a while.”

“I could?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“For as long as you’d like.”

He could, Draco realised. He’d let Potter stay all night. In fact, some part of him wanted him to stay, despite his stupid hair and stupid glasses, he had saved the world. Draco had to give him that. And he wasn’t really as self-centred as Draco had always liked to believe. In fact he was almost… almost quite sweet.

When Draco woke the next morning he was deemed fit to leave by Pomfrey. He had woken up alone, and pocketed his vastly depleted stack of sweets before making for the Dungeons. 

Before he left he stopped to glance out the window to the pitch. A solitary figure was flying in the morning sun. He had a mop of black hair and a long Gryffindor scarf swirling in the breeze around him. 

Draco all but ran back to the Dungeons to deposit his sweets on his bed and grab his broom. It was a nice morning for a fly, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little thing I threw together to let off a bit of steam. Why is Drarry the only reliable thing in my life, I ask you?
> 
> I have a much bigger work of the go, and it is very close to my heart, but I just tapped this up when it popped into my head.
> 
> Let me know what you think, please alert me to any spag mistakes, and any constructive criticism is warmly welcomed. 
> 
> Comments keep my little fanfic writer heart tickin so any and all comments are very much appreciated (i'm so lonely!)
> 
> Long live Drarry *peace sign


End file.
